


A Priest, a Monk, and a Viking Walk Into a Bar (just kidding)

by Famous_Blue_Raincoat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Christianity, Conversations, Crossover, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friendship, Gen, Pagan Gods, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:36:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Famous_Blue_Raincoat/pseuds/Famous_Blue_Raincoat
Summary: Beric and Thoros are sitting on the beach when who should pull up to shore: Ragnar and Athelstan, of course! Much theological discussion ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you are not interested in theology, this may not be your cup of tea. Our heroes have a talk about their gods. That's all, folks.

“Beric, it looks like we have company.” 

From their shelter beneath the trees, Thoros could see a small vessel preparing to land on the shore.

His friend tensed and grabbed his sword.

“Stay here.”

Thoros had to laugh at that.

“As if I have a choice!”

After a fall from his horse which broke his right leg in several places, Thoros and Beric had been unable to continue their journey to the Wall. Separated as they were from the Brotherhood, they camped in a secluded spot in the woods with a view of the shore. 

The boat was small, but it possessed a strange dignity and strength, with its sinewy lines and red sail. A tall, roaring dragon adorned the prow. 

“Surely not Targaryen!” thought Beric. 

Two men disembarked from the vessel, wearily dragging themselves up the beach. As they approached, Beric noted their odd appearances. 

One man was broad and had his head shaved on the sides and near the base of the skull. The remaining fair hair was gathered in a tail at the crown. More peculiar were the symbols tattooed all over his bare head, as well as his arms, chest, and neck. His long beard appeared to be braided in places.

His companion, on the other hand, was of slighter build and had a mop of curly dark hair upon his head. At second glance, Beric noticed the crown of the man’s head was shorn to the skin. His face was clean shaven, as well, and he wore a plain brown robe tied at the waist. 

When the strangers saw him, the larger of the two pulled an ax from his belt. Beric’s hand immediately went to his sword, but his weapon remained sheathed. 

“Holy shit,” Thoros gasped, somewhere behind him. 

“We don't want any trouble, gentlemen,” Beric said with a thin smile and a placating gesture. “My friend is injured, and we are camping here before continuing our journey.”

The robed man came forward while his companion glared malevolently.

“We do not want trouble either, ser. My name is Athelstan and this is Ragnar Lothbrok.”

He spoke the common tongue with only a hint of an accent.

“I am Lord Beric Dondarrion, and my friend is Thoros of Myr. If your Ragnar would put away his ax you could join us for some bread and ale.”

Athelstan looked back at Ragnar for guidance. The man shrugged his shoulders and slipped his ax in his belt.

“I would not say no to food and drink.”

The blond man had a peculiar accent Beric could not place. 

Once they were seated on the ground by the tent, Thoros passed his flask around. The four men regarded one another warily. Ragnar broke the silence. 

“Beric, how did you lose your eye? Did you trade it for knowledge like Odin?” With this the man smirked and took a long sip from the bottle. 

Beric was perplexed. 

“Who is this Odin?”

The tattooed man’s piercing blue eyes hardened, and he replied.

“The Allfather. The wanderer. They say I am descended from him.”

Athelstan cleared his throat.

“Ragnar and the other Northmen worship many gods, but Odin is the wisest and most powerful.”

Thoros and his friend exchanged glances. 

“There is but one god, and he is the Lord of Light.” Thoros said. 

Athelstan’s eyes widened, and he burst out excitedly. 

“You worship the Christ, as well?! This is exciting!”

“Hold on, priest.” Ragnar laid a hand on his friend’s knee. “These men look confused. I do not think they are Christians like you.”

“You are a priest, too? I'm a priest!” Thoros smiled at Athelstan before popping some black bread in his mouth. 

“No, I am not really a priest. I'm a monk. It's different.”

“So, you don't follow the Red God?” Beric asked, confused. 

“Who the fuck is the red god?” Lothbrok lay back in the grass and folded his arms under his head. 

Everyone started talking at once. 

“No, I follow Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, the only son of God-”

“Thor is also a son of god, as I've explained before.”

“--who died on the cross and in three days rose again that we might-”

“Odin also hung on a tree-”

“I can top that! Beric has risen from the dead six times, so far!”

The men fell silent and gaped at Beric, who was uncomfortable with the attention. The monk, as he called himself, was pale as a ghost and was making strange gestures in front of his face. Ragnar was leaning towards them excitedly. 

“What do you mean?” It was Ragnar who spoke. 

Beric shrugged.

“You asked how I lost my eye. A dangerous man plunged a dagger through it, piercing my brain. That was my fourth death. Before that I was hanged.” He pulled the collar of his tunic down to reveal the angry red wound encircling his neck. 

“Don't forget the lance through the chest.”

“I may not remember much, Thoros, but I assure you I couldn't forget this.”

He removed his tunic entirely and pointed out where the lance and sword had permanently marked his skin. 

Athelstan looked as though he might faint. 

In a quiet voice he asked,

“May I touch your wounds?”

After hesitating for a moment, Beric nodded his assent. 

The man in the robe slowly and gently traced the scars on his chest and back, probing delicately at the deeper ones. Unaccustomed to such intimacy, Beric shivered slightly. 

“How can this be?” Athelstan was trembling.

“It seems the Lord isn't finished with Beric yet,” Thoros said in an offhanded way. 

“Thoros gave me the Kiss of Fire after my first death-”

“It was just an empty rite,” the priest chuckled. “Imagine my surprise when he drew breath and sat up!”

“And it has been the same each time.” Beric whispered, almost sadly. 

“This is unfathomable.” Athelstan pressed his cross to his lips, near tears. 

Ragnar put his arm around his friend.

“I told you there are many gods. This should be a cause for celebration, not despair. Perhaps they are all together, up there in the clouds, sharing ale and smiling at us.”

Beric had no words, but he found himself moved by the evident love between the two foreigners. He looked over at his own friend and smiled.

Thoros clapped him on the back and passed the flask again. It was almost empty. 

“But I must say, Beric,” Ragnar began with a twinkle in his eye, “you must be a terrible warrior to have died so many times.”

All four men roared with laughter, even Athelstan whose eyes were glistening with unshed tears. 

As the sun set, Ragnar taught Beric some new fighting techniques, while the priest and the monk lounged against a tree, deep in conversation. 

Beric felt more alive than he had in years, as he did when the Brotherhood first formed. Here they were, men from vastly different worlds, united by their curiosity, dedication to disparate gods, and a love of adventure. He wished they never had to part.


End file.
